


Names

by FionaTailynn



Series: The Line [1]
Category: Elementary (TV), Elementlock, Sherlementary, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221b, AU John and Sherlock still living together, Crossover, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, London, Mystery, No Romance, POV Alternating, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sad, Watson Brother/Sister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FionaTailynn/pseuds/FionaTailynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In London, #24 is still struggling to cope with his cause as part of the twenty-five consulting detectives, and John Watson is ignoring his all-round better sister, avoiding her at any cost.<br/>Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, #25 has built a new life and left his old one in Enlgand, starting afresh after his drug incident, and one Joan Watson, still feeling guilty about how things turned out with her brother after all these years suddenly, out of the blue decides to apologize and make things right again.</p><p>When this twist of fate brings all four together, they decide to uncover the mystery that surrounds the secretive line of twenty-five Sherlock Holmes' and at the same time mend the broken Watson family back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction takes place in an Alternate Universe where The Reichenbach Fall never happened, and Sherlock and John have lived together for a couple more years. For Elementary it takes place between Season 1 and 2 and S2Ep1 is to be completely disregarded, as well as the entire Irene is Moriarty plot.  
> I mostly wrote this because I wanted to find a relatively plausible way that these two brilliant shows could exist together. Also, I think that the tensions between both fandoms are so high right now, and it's good that we have some people who like both.

> _"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." –Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare_

* * *

Some people are simply bad at giving names: Sherlock's parents, for instance. I mean come on! Fine, it's not a  _bad_  name but I can't imagine that someone named "Sherlock" or "Mycroft" did not have a hard childhood. However, I can't say that my parents were particularly good either. Firstly, they gave their first-born the most normal, boring and ordinary name of them all. (That's me by the way.) Secondly, they name a girl Harriet. Perhaps it's just a matter of taste but then there's more to it:

When I was seven, my parents decided to adopt a second daughter because they felt that they owed it to the world or something stupid I can't really understand. Anyway, they chose a baby of Chinese origin who, naturally, I hated from the start. Not just for the obvious older brother/younger sister reasons but also because of what my parents named her. For some, unexplainable and unforgiveable reason, they thought Joan (that's right, one letter difference) would be the best name or her.

You can imagine how enraged I was; I still am to be honest. Maybe it's also that she's an all round improved version of me. She was the better child, had more friends than me, never did anything wrong. Even when I didn't either, even when I brought home a report card that was considered "very good" by most of my teachers, she would still get all the attention and be the goody-two-shoes of the Watson family. It's a miracle my parents even paid for my studies; I honestly believed that they would have pretty much given up on me by then (which they had on Harry, though since I couldn't really get along with her either, and couldn't see much future for her anyway, it made little difference to me). We both chose the path of medicine for our studies, and (what a surprise!) she was even a better doctor than me. I hated her even more after that.

You're probably thinking that I don't mean most of this seriously, that she's my sister and that deep down I love her. Wrong. Well,  _very_  deep down I sort of care about her, but I've never in anyway been compelled to do her a favour, just because it was "a nice thing to do."  
We both left London after graduating. That was the first time since I was seven that I could finally escape "Little Miss Perfec". She moved to New York to pursue a career as a surgeon, whereas I decided to go to Afghanistan and help work on the wounded in battle. That was our main difference: She couldn't bear the dead; even after eight long years in medical school, the thought of someone dying made her quite uncomfortable. That was why she decided to be a doctor.

Me, I liked chaos, the pressure to save someone, and when they were gone, it wasn't rare for me to take a look at the corpses (one of the many reasons I am able to put up with Sherlock), find out why they died, and what I could do better. I liked helping others get through, in any way I could, even if those ways were under horrible, and quite terrifying conditions. That was why I decided to be a doctor.

To put it shortly: Joan could only operate when she was in a clean operating room, experienced nurses surrounding her, and all precautions had been taken so that the patient would most certainly get out of surgery alive and well. I, on the other hand, didn't mind when the victim's blood was on me.

While we were away, we also both had our downfalls. I got shot in the shoulder, was shipped back to London where I first made acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes. Joan made a fatal mistake on a patient and after that never had the strength to hold a scalpel again. When I heard of this, honestly, I was almost happy. I couldn't say that no one had died under my operating table, however, what I could say was that I hadn't let that affect me. Joan stayed in America, reasoning that she liked it there more and that she'd already lost her British accent anyway.  
I haven't heard from her since, and I have no idea whether she ever continued with medicine, but to be sincere, I don't really care either. She only ever calls my parents and has always said that her work (whatever it is) disables her from coming over on the holidays.

Oh, and did I mention her middle name is Hilary (yet another example for my parents' poor taste in names)? That's right; that makes us John H. Watson, M.D. and Joan H. Watson, M.D (that is, if she ended up returning to medicine).

The interesting thing about Joan, is that she's basically the only person in my life that Sherlock hasn't found out about.

Until now.

My phone is vibrating. I look at it and can already tell from here that it's not the UK area code. Hesitantly, I close my laptop and shuffle towards the coffee table where the phone is buzzing irritatingly. Just in that moment, Sherlock walks in.


	2. #24

All names are chosen for you, sometimes even before you exist, before it is sure you will even survive the first day you stare at the world, which is in many ways absurd. However, not many are born to have the names they are given. I, like the twenty-four others, was born to be Sherlock Holmes.

It is in fact not a name, more like a title. …Yes, okay, fine, I didn't exactly  _invent_  the term consulting detective. But… it's complicated.

I am the twenty-fourth in the long line of Sherlock Holmes' Their task is to keep the United Kingdom safe from crime, without drawing attention to themselves. I've never quite understood myself, all I know is I hate this tradition so much. I do it because it is my duty and of all things I could possibly be doing with my life everything else looks agonizingly mundane. If that hadn't been the case, I probably would've ended up like #25. #25 is the only Sherlock who is alive apart from me. I assume that the pointless tradition of the consulting detectives will die soon, as they only ever spoke about twenty-five members.

Every time I get furious about my situation, I think of #25. He's the only other person out there who could possibly understand me, even if we've never met. He is in a way family, though we are probably not blood-related, and I can only imagine John being opposed to me not trying to bond with my family (he's such a hypocrite when it comes to relatives). But that would be against the rules: No member of the line can ever meet under any circumstances- Just one more thing I fail to understand.

Anyway, #25 might even be someone I couldn't properly communicate with. He's also from London, one of the best consulting detectives there ever was, so I hear, but apparently he was sent to rehabilitation after having overdosed on heroin. After that, I never heard a single word of him again.

It was frustrating, having to live with my purpose, which I was told so little about. All I know, I was taught, trained and conditioned for. They made sure my brain was the perfect weapon for deducing. And they did the same with all twenty-five of us. That's the one thing I will never forgive my parents for; forcing me to do what was foretold I had to, simply to keep the century-old tradition going, which no one really understands anymore, anyway. I just wish I could find out why I'm doing this, that's all… If I knew the greater cause I was serving, maybe, just  _maybe_  I would find this a good idea. But that would involve breaking the rules…

On the other hand, it's not like I haven't done that before. I got tired of living all on my own (isolation was another one of their rules), so I decided to get myself a flat mate. It was one of the bravest moments in my life, if I may say so myself. I remember being terrified, so terrified about what would happen if I broke one of the ten unbreakable rules, but so _happy_ , truly, actually  _happy_ when I found someone who didn't mind the way I was.  
The day they found out, they got furious with me, told me that I was jeopardizing his and my own safety, and when I bitterly asked safety from what, they sat there in silence, as if they didn't know themselves. Of course they didn't know, nobody knows, that's the whole point. The less you know, the less you're at risk. That's what they told me. It's all just rubbish to me. So in the end they let my rebellious act of trying to socialize the one time in my life, I actually wanted to (but my finding it appalling is due to them as well) slip through, under the condition that I never mentioned a word to him about my life-long secret (stupid, as that's like telling me that I'm allowed to break this rule as long as I don't break a previously established one).  
Which I didn't. Until today.

Something is odd about John's phone ringing today. I don't know why but watching him stare at the number on his mobile, the way he seems to be coming to some odd conclusion is just wrong. I furrow my eyebrows as I get close to him and discretely peek over the screen. The area code is definitely American.

_Strange…_

One part of my mind is thinking, "Maybe you should leave him his privacy", but the second, much louder voice in my mind is yelling: " _Investigate!"_ It's basically an instinct for me now.

"Who's calling you?" I ask while sitting down on the couch beside him. He quickly looks up and covers the phone screen, as if there's even a slight chance that I haven't already memorized the number.

"What? Nobody, it's probably just a mistake," he says innocently. I raise my eyebrows at him, and I can tell from his expression that he knows he can't fool me that easily.

"The number's from America," I remark.

"So?" he retorts.

"So, the person is calling for a special reason. If the person would call you frequently a) I would know about it and b) you wouldn't look as surprised about him or her calling you. That means that the person would've had to check your number to call you, meaning that they carefully punched in every number by reading from a something that had it written down. Now, if they already get the entire international code correctly, do you really think they'd make a mistake in the phone number that easily? The question is, why would you just assume it was a wrong number, unless you don't want me to know about it…"

In that time the phone continues to ring, and I tilt my head to it, wondering who could be on the other line. I can feel John looking at me with that same astonished gaze he wears around me painfully often for the fact that we've lived together for so long. There's a brief pause, in which only the phone continues to make that irritating buzzing noise.

"So who's calling you?" I finally repeat, for some reason not very irritated by the fact that John has been keeping something from me. I'm more intrigued than anything at the moment. John swallows harshly; he obviously has no intention to tell me. I let my eyes rest on his nervous face, my patience wearing thin. He looks around in search of an explanation, and just before he opens his mouth, I grab my chance, snatch the phone and pick up:

"Hello?"

"Hello?" a male voice replies, "Is this John Watson speaking?" My eyes flash over to John who's trying to reach for his phone, but I'm forcing him into his spot on the couch with my free hand.

"No, why do you wish to speak to him?"

"Oh, it's just that his sister wanted to apologize to him," the voice says in a seemingly playful manner.

"No, I didn't!" a voice with a clear New York answer calls in from the background. I furrow my eyebrows trying to make out the fight the two are having on the other end, while John screams something at me, but I don't understand a word of what either of them are saying.

John's _sister_? John's sister certainly doesn't have an American accent. The whole thing is just getting more puzzling by the second.

"Why do you want to talk to him?" I ask the male voice, the only other person who doesn't seem to be completely furious at the moment, and he probably knows some answers.

"Oh, no particular reason, she just seems to not like me calling her brother, which for me is a great pleasure." I smile, amusedly.

"And with whom do I have the pleasure?"

"Sherlock Holmes, and you?" I let out a sarcastic laugh.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"Not yet. Why would I?"

"If you're calling John Watson, you probably know that he lives with me; _My_ name is Sherlock Holmes."

"What!?" The voice on the other end seems more shocked than it should be. I feel myself becoming nervous, as if the truth is catching up with me. It can't be… It isn't possible…


	3. #25

"What's your name?" they'd always ask me, and I always hated it. As if my  _name_ described who I was, as if it made a difference to the way I act and interact with others. Well, being part of the line, it does in my case... But I hate that people assume so about everybody it would seem. "California? What sort of a weird name is that?" My reply would be:  **What. Does. It. Matter.**

"Sherlock? What sort of a weird name is that?" Well, _there_ is a completely different story. A story I never thought I could change any more than I managed by moving here.  
Until now.

When you take your companion's phone to call her up-to-now kept-secret brother so as to annoy her so she stops insisting on you having a proper diet, you do not expect to be talking to someone who might just have more in common with you than anyone else in the world.

Watson is still trying to retrieve her phone while I effortlessly hold her back as I listen to the unsteady breathing on the other side. Could it be? Could it really be him? The notorious #24? The only other left? I'm not supposed to contact him, but this was an accident, right? So I think this falls into the grey zone… There's only one way I can be sure that it  _is_  him though; by asking him the question I hate the most:

"So tell me, Mister Sherlock Holmes, what is your name?"

There is a short pause on the other end, but I can feel the excited realization with just a tiny hint of a smirk.

"They didn't give me a name. They gave me a number." I smile in satisfaction, though still shocked that this conversation is actually happening.

"Twenty-four," is all I say. I hear a very long inhalation on the other end and then:

"Twenty-five." It's the first time someone calls me by the closest thing I have to a name in  _long_ time.  
 _No_ , I have to stop those thoughts. I gave the entire 25# business up when I got out of rehabilitation. I am Sherlock Holmes, not because they said so, but because I want to be. But still, he's the only one out there that they did the same to…

"Where are you?" he asks.

"New York," I reply.

"Why did you call anyway?"

"What I told you. I want to annoy Watson."

"Watson?" He says pretty surprised. My eyes flash over to her. In the mean time she seems to have given up and is just sitting at the desk and carefully watching me, as if I was holding cocaine to my nose or something of the sort.

"Is there something wrong with that?" #24 takes a deep breath.

"You said you were with John Watson's sister, am I right?" In the background I can hear a man, presumably the named John Watson, piping in:

"Joan?" says he extremely loudly. At her name Watson looks up.

"What?" she asks. It would seem we are suddenly a conversation of four. I glare at her madly, as if this was  _my_ private conversation, and for some reason, she sits back down, defeated. I concentrate on the phone again.

"I am talking from Joan Watson's phone, yes."

"J-Joan Watson?" he staggers. That's impossible. We were trained to talk as clearly and quickly as possible. Something must really put him off track. Oh, I understand, and  _oh_ , this is quite the coincidence isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter (and many to follow) are relatively (or impossibly) short but I have to keep a balance between the POVs and there are certain parts that the narrator has to say him- or herself, thank you for understanding :)


	4. Joan

Names are there so that we get some individuality to begin with, but when you are given the female version of a name someone in your family already owns, that kind of goes against the point. Now, before you start giving me a lecture about how I should've tried to help him, that I should've let him some space to shine, I have something to say: I tried. I really did. I wanted to help him but he wouldn't let me, he was far too proud for it. And the one time I made sure he had a better grade than me, our parents didn't in any way take note of it. Plus, it's not like it's  _my_ fault that our names are so similar. Stupid parents.

What's going on? Who is Sherlock talking to?

It's one thing to feel so guilty about what your brother has gone through that you're compelled to call him for the first time in years, but the degree of frustration grows exponentially when, just at the moment you wanted to call, your partner-in-crime snatches the phone away from you and starts talking the most senseless conversation with whoever is on the other side (but it's definitely not my useless brother).

Why did that person pick up and not John? I wonder if I should take this as a sign that we should not reunite our family. It's all too much. I get up and walk over to the bathroom, staring at my thin self in the mirror, to try and get things straight in my mind. Sadly, they do not. I take a deep breath, through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I'm just going to walk in there, and make the call I wanted to make… Look at me! Here I am, in the middle of New York, I haven't even been to England in three years and now, just out of the blue, I decide to try and make it up to John. He won't accept my apology (although honestly, what do I have to apologize for?) anyways… But still, I should at least try and reunite the family, right?

I've made up my mind, I'm going to call John straight away…  
 _Buuuuuuut,_  first I have to find out whom Sherlock was talking to. Yes, that's it, yes.

I bite my lip at my weakness and finally leave the bathroom. Entering the living room again, I see Sherlock, cross-legged on the couch, my cell phone on the table, seemingly deep in thought.

"Who were you talking to?" I ask, standing in front of him. He doesn't move an inch.

"I think I may've found my other half." A shock overcomes me. His  _other half?_  He hasn't spoken about anyone he's ever loved since Irene. Or is this some kind of "love at first phone call" thing?

"Really?" I ask and sit down next to him. There's a moment of silence.

"No, not  _that_ kind of other half!" He exclaims and I can't help but jerk.

"Then what  _do_ you mean?" He looks at me with an unreadable grin.

"Watson, book us tickets for the next flight to London."


	5. John

After God knows how long, Sherlock finally puts the phone down. He looks completely overwhelmed. More than overwhelmed. It's weird, I've lived with him for quite some time now, and this might just be the only facial expression I haven't seen on him until now. I wait a couple moments, wondering if I should give him one of my many lectures, but the curiosity about what he's thinking of and about what changed over the course of that phone gets the best of me.  
"Who was that?" He doesn't answer, though I am 100% sure that he's acknowledging my existence at the moment.  
"Sherlock?" Still no reply. I try to figure it out for myself, and remember every detail I can of his conversation with whoever called. It was Joan's phone, but it definitely wasn't her.  _Good_ , I think. Sherlock getting to know her is the last thing I want (although I would pay to see him deducing her…). Slowly, his head turns over to me. He stares at me for a couple seconds, but I don't think he's really seeing me. Suddenly Sherlock blinks back into existence and his mouth curls into a smile.  
"What is it, Sherlock?"  
"I've found him," he says, far too much awe in his voice for my liking.  
"Who?"  
"Twenty-five." He says it as if it is the most important thing in the world, as if that number means anything more than five squared to me.  
"Twenty-five?" I repeat.  
"Yes."  
"And what's that supposed to mean?" His smile vanishes, and he looks away from me. My friend gets up from the sofa and walks towards the window as if he didn't even hear what I said. Sherlock watches the cars carefully, seemingly deep in thought. I shouldn't bother him in such situations but today has been weird enough and I want to get some answers.  
"What's going on?" Finally he turns back to me.  
"Well, I guess as today seems to be a rule-breaking kind of day..." He takes a deep breath and sits back down next to me. "There's a reason why I'm... the way I am." He sighs.  
"What do you mean?"  
"I wasn't born a brilliant, sociopathic freak."  
"You aren't a-" I interrupt but he looks at me as though to say  _I know I am, John, it's okay,_  and so I stop speaking.  
"I was chosen before birth to be a part of the twenty-five."  
"Twenty-five what– ?"  
"Consulting detectives."  
"Wha-"  
"Twenty-five consulting detectives. There's a line of twenty-five men, named Sherlock Holmes, all trained and conditioned for the purpose of exposing civilians, who the national security is too inferior to pin down, of their crimes. Their emotions are driven out of them at a young age, replaced by memory and logic exercises." He sounds as if he is reciting a paragraph from some law book. It's utter nonsense, but I refrain from interrupting for one reason or another.  
"I am the twenty-fourth in the line and the person I was talking to was the twenty-fifth. The last. I have just encountered the only other one for the first time."  
"You... What?" I ask incredulously. What Sherlock's just explained cannot be true. But why would he make this up? Why invent the twenty-four other Sherlock Holmes'? What could he possibly gain from it? Sherlock is a good actor, so why make up such an implausible story if he was up to anything?

He sighs. "What I said is true, John." My friend looks upset. I think about the so-called truth behind him. It sounds so unreal to me, then again, it would explain  _everything_. The way he acts, his work, his detachedness. But it can't be true. It just can't. He seems to believe it, though, and that worries me a lot.  
"Okay, Sherlock, how about we take things nice and slow, and tell me again what really happened?" I place a finger on his shoulder but he pulls away from me.  
"I told you what  _really_  happened, John! That was the first time I told you something real about me! The first time I told anyone something real about me!" I've never seen him this angry. This hurt. And as I watch him turn to the mirror over the arch, and see his glistening eyes that still refuse to let one drop escape, I decide I believe him. Like that. I believe him.

"So... what's going to happen now? You know, between you two?" I finally ask. He turns back in slight surprise and again looks through me as if I were transparent. A second or two pass and I'm about to repeat the question, but before I can do so, Sherlock snaps back out of it and replies:  
"Well... he's coming here. Tomorrow, I believe."


	6. #24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the aforementioned really short chapters. Sorry not sorry yeh.

I still can't grasp the truth. #25 had always felt so distant from me, yet he was always just a phone call away.  
"Tomorrow already?" John says. I don't understand what difference the time he comes makes.  
"Problem?" I ask.  
"Well... I don't know. It's just worrisome that you invited a total stranger over,  _tomorrow_." He gives me a slightly playful grin.  
"Ah, but John. He isn't a total stranger, is he?" He just looks even more confused after my explanation. I elaborate what I mean so that even _he_ can comprehend:  
"We grew up with the same childhood and cause, were assigned the same job. The only thing that makes us different is," I sigh. "He abused of drugs. Badly. Heroin, I believe. He had to be sent into rehabilitation, but he's better now. And..." I start uttering the  _other_ difference but I the words die in my throat.

Luckily, John doesn't even take note of the sentence I started:  
"So," and I can already tell from that one 'so' the following sentence is going to be sarcastic, "You basically just invited a drug-addict, parallel version of yourself over for tea and biscuits tomorrow. From  _America_."

I want to give him a feisty response, but... That actually sounds very accurate. I have to smile a little.  
"Pretty much."  
"'Kay," he says looking around thoughtfully. I can't help but wonder what he's like; what stories he has to share; the way he sees our situation.  
And I find out tomorrow. What has always seemed like an impossible dream is really going to happen. I give the consequences of my disregarding one of the most important rules of being a Sherlock Holmes little attention. Right now, all that counts is that tomorrow #24 and #25 will finally meet. Tomorrow I will make acquaintance with my other half. Tomorrow everything changes.  
John and I don't mention #25 again. That night, I don't sleep, pulling strings on my violin, remembering the terrible things they did to me, counting the seconds until I can finally talk to someone who will understand.


	7. Joan

Sherlock refuses to explain to me why he's suddenly decided to go back to his hometown, or to whom he was talking on the phone.  
I cross my arms. "I'll book you that ticket if you tell me why."  
He doesn't look up from the records of the late Ms. Renner, which are scattered on the floor.  
" _Us_ , Watson, we're both going." I sigh. I don't want to waste my time and money on an intervention to England, and get jet-lagged for no reason.  
"Why do I have to come with you?" He stares at me and stands back up.  
"Oh, I thought you were my partner, and it was your job to accompany me with my work?"  
"I accompany you on cases. Not when you're having a little meet-up with some random guy you just shared a phone call with." I point at the phone, still lying on the table.  
"See it as a business trip. I'll take care of all costs. I want to finally uncover my past now."  
I sigh. "What are you talking about?"  
"The secrets we are about to unravel are something that -together with my drug abuse- I left in Britain. Swore to never look back. But, as over the course of my last phone call, something completely unforeseen occurred, I have changed my plan. However, I would like to keep those secrets in Britain and not drag them onto this continent. So, if you book us those tickets, I would be delighted to explain the situation to you, once we're there."  
I understand about half of what he's saying, but I know in there, somewhere was a promise to explain once we arrive in London, so I give in.  
"Fine!" I lift my arms up in exasperation. "You know whatever, I'll book the tickets but you better hold your part of the deal," I warn him while leaving the living room.

* * *

We retrieve our baggage at London Heathrow Airport the next day. I only managed to book a flight from JFK that would land in London the next day because Sherlock somehow managed to convince his father to help him out. I am exhausted from six hours of sleepless flying but I haven't forgotten what he promised: "So why are we here, Sherlock?" I ask, as we leave the baggage band and head down a long hall.  
"Patience, Watson. We're not in England yet."  
"What do you mean? How _aren't_ we in England?" He points at the queue of people in front of us.  
"Still have to pass customs until we officially enter the country." I roll my eyes as we stand in line and wait to show our passports. Sluggishly we get closer and closer to finally exiting the airport. I'm surprised with myself for having managed to get a couple hours of rest on the flight. As the two of us move forwards slowly, I begin to wonder how my hometown might've changed in the past three years and suddenly it occures to me that somewhere in that huge city is John. And maybe – just  _maybe_ – I could figure out where he is and sort us out while here. But when I do find him, I cannot mess it up again like I always did. I know I can't. I promise myself not to.

We pass customs and he finally begins to explain:  
"I wasn't a consultant with Scotland Yard by choice."  
"But you weren't even paid!" I interrupt immediately.  
"No. I wasn't." He turns around so he is walking backwards to face me. I find this very unwise but I don't comment.  
"I'll have you know, Watson, you are the only ever consulting detective to be paid." I close my eyes for a second.  
"There only is you and me, Sherlock."  
"Wrong." And he turns back so that we are side by side once again as we travel to the train station of Europe's largest airport. I am confused about what he means. He said he invented the job.  
"There are twenty-four others," he explains. Unsurprisingly, his explanation doesn't really help me understand what the heck he's talking about.  
"Twenty-four other consulting detectives?"  
"Correct." We are now waiting on the platform for the Heathrow Express to come. I try to keep track of everything he's telling me.  
"So... what does that have to do with you not doing it by choice?" He looks around and makes sure no one can hear him.  
"I was born with the duty to be a consulting detective." He looks so sincere I almost fall for it.  
"Oh, ha ha. You're just coming up with excuses, because you don't want to tell me why we're really here."  
He leans back a tiny bit from me.  
"I figured it would be hard to convince you." I decide to play along with his game.  
"Okay, fine. You were born with the duty to be a consulting detective. How do the phone call and your spontaneous trip back to England connect with it all?"  
"It isn't just twenty-five consulting detectives. It's twenty-five men, all with the same name and basically the same lonely life of solving crime after crime, living with the sociopathy and intelligence forced into them upon childhood." He looks melancholic while he explains this ridiculous tale, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. I continue to hear him out though none of this can possibly be the truth. Maybe he'll give me some kind of hint and this is all part of my "training".  
"Yesterday, I shared that phone call with Number Twenty-four, the only other that is still alive. I am Number Twenty-five, the last. But that phone call was never meant to happen, and we are in  _big_  trouble, well at least he is."  
"Why would you and your second Sherlock Holmes or something be in trouble?"  
"Well, because we aren't allowed to contact each other."  
"Why not?" I ask, and I hate to admit, but I am very curious about this.  
"Well, that's what we're going to find out, aren't we?" Our train arrives and we get on, dragging our suitcases behind us.  
"By doing what?" I ask as he pushes past several people on the train. He grins at me.  
"Well by breaking all the rules of course."


	8. #25

It is precisely 10:25 and forty-six seconds GMT when we get off the tube at the Baker Street stop, 10:26 and twelve seconds when we emerge from the Underground, 10:26, and nineteen when I start quickly walking in one direction and Watson, clearly soon reaching her limit of frustration with me, following me close behind, and finally, it is exactly 10:29 and one second when she and I are standing in front of a black door with four golden characters nailed onto it: 221B.  
It is around this time, that I really feel my excitement raising. I have been wondering about the man who lives beyond these walls my entire  _life_. My mind starts to wonder back to my childhood, to those terrible,  _terrible_ memories of what was done to me. To  _both_  of us... But I must snap out of it now, focus on what is happening...

What  _is_  happening?

Why did I even offer to meet him? Why, after turning my back on my past did I want to go digging back in it once I heard him?  
 _Focus,_ I force myself. This was happening to #24, too when we shared that call.  _Nervosity, little concetration,_ _ **semtimentality**_ _._ For a second I wonder if that's why we aren't allowed to meet.  
 _GET A GRIP!_ I take a deep breath and realize that Watson has been watching me cogitate all this time with a slightly worried look on her face. I stare back at her for her to stop. She does.  _Always does the trick,_ I mumble to myself and finally push the door without ringing. It's open, surprisingly.  
"They left it open for you," Watson points out and of course she's right (she's learned from (one of) the best).  
There are seventeen steps that lead up to the flat that belongs to Sherlock Holmes. I take my time with each and every one, and so does she, it would seem, as we never get any closer or fall apart any more. In front of the door I pause.  
And I wait.  
And I finally open the door and there, two men on the other side but I know, I just  _know_  which one he is.  
 _#24._

In the flesh and in the bone he stands before me. Sherlock Holmes, Number Twenty-four, and I can tell by the way he's staring back at me that he knows who I am as well. We remain silent for a moment, carefully trying to find out as much as we can about ourselves. No one dares speak a word until the other, presumably that John Watson I had originally wanted to reach during that phone call, suddenly shouts while pointing at Watson:  
" _You!_ Why the hell are  _you_  here?" Immediately provoked by her older step-brother, she retorts:  
"Me?! You're the one supposed to be... _oh_ ," which is about the moment my companion remembers the circumstances of the phone call.  
"What 'oh'?" John asks, curious, but also annoyed. I would very much like to get to business but then again this outburst of human emotion is hilarious. The giggle I hear coming from the other side of the room, from #24, confirms he thinks so, too.  
"What do you care any ways?"  
 _"Ooooooh_... So is Little Miss Perfect keeping secrets now, well  _bravo_!" Wow, it's even more childish than I initially thought. Tedious.  
After some hesitation, I finally get closer to him.

 _This is it_ , I think. Direct contact. Breaking the rule most pounded into my head.  
But I do not live by these rules any more, do I?  
However, when I open my mouth and he notices, he turns away, showing that he indeed does.  
But I think he's just nervous and so I speak as softly as possible with all the family feud going on behind us:  
"Hello, Twenty-four." I notice a twitch on the side of his face not completely turned away from me. But with our training, him twitching is just as unlikely as my eyes seeing something falsely. When he still doesn't reply to me or even throw me a glance, I take him by the shoulders so that he's forced to look me in the eyes. We just stare at each other thoroughly for a minute.  
Everything on him is lighter; his eyes; his skin; his figure; his lips. Just his hair is near black. I try to picture the #24 I had imagined playing with me during my lonely mornings as a child, remember what he looked like, but the real image of him standing not a foot away just blurs out the pictures from my daydreams, replacing them with it. Like he's always been there, like it was him from the start.

Surprisingly, some lock inside him clicks open and he's the first to speak again. His tone sounds nothing like what is to expect from someone trained to divorce themselves from emotions. But then again, he was also trained to never, under any circumstances  _ever_ , talk to me.  
"T-twenty-five."


	9. #24

This is crazy. I shouldn't be doing this.

What if- What if!?

But no, he's touching me, and he said something to me and everything's okay. And oh my God this  _is_ it. Here we are. #24 and #25. Finally.  
His eyes are a little darker than mine but retain that certain blue-grayishness. His face is also quite long like mine but looks much rounder and less pointy. I never imagined anyone's face in the line could look very friendly, warm, or welcoming, but his  _does._  He's not cold, like I am.  
Finally, when I'm convinced nothing will happen, I say his name:  
"T-twenty-five".


	10. John

Sherlock hadn't said a thing that morning. We had skipped breakfast and basically just waited for "the other Sherlock" or "Number Twenty-five" to arrive. During that time we exchanged about three words.  
And then finally the door knob opened, and I thought  _this is it. This is where everything changes._ _  
_  
But then, always one to make an entrance, none other than Joan Hillary Watson walks in and I don't even notice the man next to her.  
" _You!_  Why the hell are  _you_  here?" It starts off but soon it's just automatic replies I'm not really thinking about. We've had so much practice in these fights we don't need to. (The only thing that's different now is that she's talking with her New York accent and I am kind of happy about that, so that we aren't _as_ similar anymore.)  
I don't know why I am so angry that she's here, but I feel like she's misplaced in this whole situation. Like this is  _not_  her moment, and I have no idea why she's here–  
But I do.

The number. The phone number I was hiding from Sherlock was  _hers_. He came in contact with "the other Sherlock" through my sister's phone. All the pieces fall together and something in my mind clicks.  
And for a second I stop screaming at her and I just take time to assess the entire situation; The only two Sherlock Holmes' left, out of a total of twenty-five,  _both_  ended up with me and Joan. And, exactly us two! Two of all siblings who have so little contact with each other, we never even knew until now. I am almost in awe at my realization, until–  
"What are you so happy about?" She has this innocent tone that I really,  _really_ hate. I take a deep breath and try not to be provoked by it.  
"Nothing," I mutter. Knowing she won't get an answer out of me, Joan says nothing back and rolls her eyes. It is only now that I notice that the two Sherlocks have left us to our fight and are having a conversation of their own. Or something like that.  
"T-twenty-five," Sherlock,  _my_ Sherlock stutters. His expression isn't unlike yesterday's. So uncertain, so hurt. For a second, I wonder if he'll always be like this from now on. But then  _her_  Sherlock asks, with a grin:  
"So,  _Twenty-four_ , would you like to find out why you're doing this?" And I swear, just for a second, my friend's face lights up with so much hope and surprise it makes a Christmas tree look dim.

* * *

"So," says #25, staring back at me, Joan and Sherlock, who's sitting in between us for obvious reasons.  
"What are we going to do; The answer is, find out the reason or reasons for the existence of the line of twenty-five Sherlock Holmes'."  
"Uh-," Joan starts, raising her hand but #25 interrupts:  
"Please hold your questions for the end.  
"Now, Twenty-four," he points at Sherlock and flicks his fingers, "What do we know about the organization behind this?"  
He looks up bitterly, "Nothing. They made sure of it. So that we can  _never_  find out, remember?" #25 looks up from him quickly.  
"False, that's what  _you_  alone knew," Sherlock's mouth begins to open as if to ask a question, but before he can, #25 is already answering it:  
"After my drug incident, I had an epiphany at some point. I realized that, even though all my life I was taught the opposite, I was in fact my own man, to do with what I pleased. To demonstrate this to the organization, I told them I would go to rehabilitation and take up my work again. In America. Not protect whatever that is here that needs protecting."  
"Where is this going, Sherlock?" Joan asks.  
"Ah, now the organization can't just lose their last player, can they? So they haggled. Gave me information in the hopes I would accept my rightful position as consultant to Scotland Yard again. I kindly thanked them, stowed the files away into my brain and left my past behind me.  _Until_  yesterday when Twenty-four and I were connected by a miraculous phone-call." Sherlock's face is almost as light as before again.  
"So you're saying you know how to find their headquarters?"  
The other smiles. "No, I'm saying I know where it is." And he seems so happy again, before his mouth curves into a shape of fear in the blink of an eye.

"What are you afraid of, Sherlock?" I ask, and in the corner of my eye I notice #25 looking up at the name. Sherlock just stares into space, as if paralysed. It's so odd. Ever since #25 came into his life it's like... Like #25 has taken over as the "real" Sherlock now and  _my_  Sherlock is just slowly falling to pieces. I am determined to find out why.  
"The past," he finally says, still focusing on the same point on the wall. I put an arm around him and am very annoyed at Joan for also looking at him with concern.  
"The past is nothing to be afraid of, Sherlock," I try to comfort him with. He looks at me, and there's this hint of terror in his eye, one that I've only seen once in him before, a long time ago in the hollow on the Dartmoor...  
"Mine is," he insists. #25 is watching curiously. For a second I feel like it's unfair that he is taking all of this so much better than Sherlock is, but quickly I push that thought away. Even when two are treated exactly the same way, they still are different.  
"What happened? It's good to talk about these things." But Sherlock just shakes his head no. So I leave it at that because I have learned that not insisting with Sherlock will more often get you what you want. Also, because I am not in  _such_  a rush to find out what could possibly terrify Sherlock this much. Gently rubbing his shoulder, I turn to #25 and ask: "So what do we do now?"  
"Well, I am planning to go to the headquarters immediately. Watson," he turns to Joan (and I can't help but grin at him calling my little sister "Watson"), "You may go to the hotel and rest until your jetlag wears off."  
"I'm fine," she sighs, though clearly quite tired, "I'll go wherever you go, Sherlock."  
"Very well then, Other Watson!" (My grin disappears), "Despite our many similarities you probably know him better than I do," #25 nods towards Sherlock. "D'you think he'll be all right to come along?" I honestly don't know, but I'd much rather be safe than sorry.  
"I don't think-"  
"Oh, I'll be fine." I turn back to my friend who is sitting back up straight. His mouth is very lightly curved, something that could be a tiny smile, but I can't be certain.  
"Are you sure?" Joan and I ask simultaneously. The curve in Sherlock's mouth grows and I can definitely tell that it's a smile now.  
"Of course," he says, and it sounds exactly like the old him, "After all, that's what I'm trained to be."


	11. Joan

I messed up.  _Again._  I did exactly the one thing, my parents have been telling me to try and improve all my life; I replied to John's childish retorts, which just makes me a hypocrite. How did I let that happen?! I wanted to work us out and here I am walking back down the steps of 221B, having achieved nothing, and somehow been convinced that Sherlock was telling the truth all along. He and I are already waiting by the edge of the road while John and #24 quickly get their coats.

I can't put my finger on the latter. I'm not a doctor (anymore), let alone of that sort but he seems to be incredibly instable. One minute #24 was almost having a mental breakdown upon Sherlock talking to him, the next he looked like an indestructible shell, even more than  _my_  Sherlock does. The idea of being alone with him at some point throughout this trip makes me a little uncomfortable, as I don't want to have to handle him going crazy like he did before. And yet, look at him; coming down, all self-confident. What could be so bad about him? Correction; what could make him  _worse_  than Sherlock?  
The four of us stand on the pavement –sidewalk; I mean sidewalk– of Baker Street while we wait for a cab to come. An impenetrable silence surrounds us and I lean back on my heels and breathe in the foreign yet familiar London breeze. New York is still my home, but oh how I've missed this city...

The first cab arrives. Sherlock says he'll take this one and opens the door as he is the most sure of where we're going, though I'm quite certain #24 knows as well. I want to get in with him, but so does #24, it would seem. John, of course, doesn't agree at all.  
"Oh no, I am not going with her." It angers me how John tolerates nearly everything except me. I open my mouth but hold back a witty reply. I take a deep breath and say no more.  
 _Getting better at it.._. I motivate myself. However, I know this self-restraint won't last forever.  
"Then I'll go with Sherlock," I say. Both Sherlock Holmes #24 and #25 look at each other and exchange a small hint of a grin.  
"All right then," says #24 and grabs me by the arm, and into the cab past Sherlock. I'm a little startled but don't fight him off like I thought I would if he were to come near me. After closing the door behind me and fastening my seatbelt, the cab takes off. Still wearing that silly grin, #24 mumbles an address, I don't quite catch on to, to the driver.  
I reassess what just happened: They knew exactly which one I meant when I said "Sherlock". I can tell by the faces they made. But I grant them the pleasure as I guess they haven't had much of that in their lives...

The cab drive is very quiet at first. What is there to stay? Well, there is something... "So, you're a consulting detective, I see."  
"Only one in the– well, only other in the world," he answers, gazing out the window. I smile a little.  
"Not quite," I say. He turns to me and looks slightly puzzled.  
"I'm one, too now. Well, sort of." He seems even more confused.  
"Sherlock is training me to become one. We work together for the NYPD but I've done a couple solo cases as well. I've got a lot better."  
"'Gotten'," he says absently, as if he hasn't been listening to what I just said.  
"Sorry?"  
"'Gotten': past participle form of 'get' in US English. You used the British form 'got'."  
He doesn't say anything else, because he knows I know he's figured the rest out a _long_ time ago. I haven't the slightest idea what to reply so I also look out the window for a bit.  
"Sherlock said he realized he was his own free man a couple years back," finally I say and turn back to him. He doesn't turn to me.  
"Do you not know you're one?"  
"Freedom is an illusion anyways," #24 says matter-of-factly.  
"What do you mean?" This time, he does bother to look at me.  
"Everyone is prisoner to something. Mostly to him- or herself," He stares at me, and I can feel him reading me, I know he is because I've felt it before. He resumes: "And some people are prisoner to their duties."  
"But you don't even  _know_  what the point in them is!" I reply, while turning more to him, even though my seatbelt is pressing into my neck uncomfortably when I do that. So does he, though he seems to have nothing left to say. His greyish eyes glare at me, and I can't imagine what might've angered him about what I said.  
"Whatever that point may be, I am still a prisoner to them."  
"So then why don't you just stop doing it and free yourself?"  
"Why don't you just become a doctor again?"  
I sit back and #24 mirrors me once more. "It's not that easy,"  
"Exactly."  
People called Sherlock are very good at shutting me up, I notice.

The cab stops in front of a large, rather old-looking building in a part of London I am scarcely familiar with. It doesn't make much of an impression on me when I look at it, but the recognition in #24's eyes, as we step out into the cool early-spring air, followed by the same flash of terror, as the one I witnessed in 221B, sends a cold shiver down my spine nonetheless. Something that frightens him probably  _should_  frighten me. Not long after that, the second cab arrives and I honestly don't even want to know what sort of fuss Sherlock caused with my brother, but to my surprise, they both step out in a rather pleasant mood. I bring my attention back to #24.  
"You know what the outside looks like, but you didn't know where the building was?" His mouth twitches just a little.  
"I never saw it from outside. We were blindfolded, later even given sleeping pills so that we couldn't deduce where the car was headed from the turns we took. Inside the shutters were always closed like they are now."  
"So how can you be sure it's this house then?"  
"The shape of the windows."  
"Oh," I say so that he thinks I should've noticed that. John and Sherlock join us and without another word, we enter the building.


	12. John

Look, I know it was somewhat childish of me to refuse to get in the cab with Joan, but as I've been trying to tell you all this time, I'm not just a jealous spoiled first child. I have my reasons for disliking her. I've counted them to you many times already.  
Except I didn't tell you the most important one, did I?

Being a little over six years older I finished my final exams in medicine before Joan (though she did skip two years). When she finally got to her exams as well, I had already been a proper doctor for a short time and was preparing to go to Afghanistan. That was the first time I saw her facade crack.  
She was panicking so hard over the exam. She couldn't remember anything when asked, was unable to explain what she meant and got extremely upset when she wasn't even capable to bring out a correct sentence. I'll admit, at first it amused me, hearing about it, but a couple weeks later she phoned me and begged me to help her. I asked her when she had ever helped me and she apologized for it all and told me she had never wanted it to be that way.

The thing is, I actually believed her that time. At some point I gave in and agreed to help her get through the exam. We studied together, sometimes even pulling all-nighters (even if as doctors we should've known that this isn't extremely productive). I gave her all the mnemonic devices I'd learned or come with myself. I made her repeat all the bones of the body with me until she could name and point at them all in under three minutes. Every minute I wasn't in the clinic I was studying with Joan. And for just those couple weeks, I thought everything was okay between us again, we would really act as if we were brother and sister from then on. But then the exams came and somehow –and I to this day, do not know how she pulled it off– Joan was suddenly that Little Miss Perfect again, aced the test and scored best of the class. Sure, I was a little envious but that wasn't the real problem.  
 _The real problem_  was that when asked how she managed to ace it, she didn't even  _mention_ me _,_  let alone that she was a hopeless case without the help I'd offered her, which I had  _no_ reason to do. She'd never wanted to help me with the classes I'd struggled with.  
And that's when I decided I was done with her; if this was how I was going to be thanked for saving her career then that was the last thing I would ever do for her.

And that was the complete truth and  _now_  who's worse?


	13. #25

No, I will _not_ tell you about the pointless conversation John and I had on the cab drive here, which some people would consider 'funny'...  
Okay,  _fine_!  
It went something like this:

John: "So... do you actually think of yourself as 'Number Twenty-five'?"  
Me: "I tend to go with just 'Twenty-five', except for the times I manage to convince myself that my name is really Sherlock Holmes... But, for the purpose of this journey, I shall think and refer to myself as Twenty-five, seen as that way, there is no one else in this world you could confuse me with."  
John: "Wow, must be hard to always keep track..."  
Me: "Years of practice."  
John: "Ah yes... About your name – or number?"  
Me: "Yes?"  
John: "How do you know that there isn't anyone else named Twenty-five?"  
Me: "... You seriously think someone would name their child that?"  
John: "My parents decided to name their son John, and their daughter Joan. It's plausible."  
Me: "... No, nothing else is called Twenty-five."  
John: "Nothing? You sure? Not even a song?"  
Me: –sighs–  
John: "A chicken?" –starts laughing lightly–  
Me: "Okay, you've made your point, there are other things named Twenty-fi-"  
John: "Oh, oh, I've got one last one!"  
Me: –Rolls eyes–  
John: "A train platform."

And maybe – _perhaps_ – it was possible that I did laugh a little at that and our conversation turned out quite all right.

Anyways, so we're entering the building now. The building where everything I know was taught to me. The building where unspeakable things were done to me. But then I remember that they maybe are speakable because now –  _now_  I  _have_  someone to speak about it to. I want to do it soon but at this moment, we need to investigate. The wooden arch in the entrance hall of the institute is just as I remember and my worn shoes – the ones that when I last entered this place were brand new – still echo, in the same way they did all those years back, when they touched the marble floor. Once we're inside #24 and I know exactly where everything is as the inside of the building is much more familiar to us than the out. For a second I think I hear his breath quickening, but when I listen again it seems as steady as the breath of a Sherlock Holmes should be. Then again, the ears of a Sherlock Holmes should not mishear such things. The ceilings in the institute are all high and the entire building has a light Edwardian era feel. I am ashamed to say that the familiarity of this horrible place comforts me.  
After a moment we leave the entrance hall and enter a long corridor, also marked by many wooden arches. Everything looks ancient and not touched in years. I guess it isn't used much when no Sherlocks are in training. What also surprises me is that the door was unlocked...

#24 and I both know exactly where we're going and we try to ignore our surroundings as much as possible. Watson and John however, are constantly looking around curiously and it almost drives me crazy, but I say nothing.  
"Where are we even going?"  
"The study," I say, and from the corner of my eye, I can see #24's eyes widen in nervousness. Of course I am nervous as well but I don't let it show. And I can't help but wonder: why is he letting it show? What could possibly be so upsetting that he's letting his instinct guard down?  
We pass a couple more arched hallways and one or two fireplaces with porcelain vases placed over them. There's a window to our left every fifteen feet or so but the ever closed shutters allow no sunlight to brighten the building. The old-fashioned yellow light from the chandeliers hanging above our heads give everything a warm, welcoming feel though I am much more repulsed by this place, personally. And something tells me #24 is  _far more_  repulsed by it. Finally we arrive at the door to the study. Watson checks if it's locked and it isn't. There was no need for her to check anyways. That door was never locked.  
"What exactly are we looking for?" she asks.  
"Anything," I say, "This was the room where the Keeper taught us. If the reason behind all of this is somewhere, then this is the best place to start."  
"Why here over the rest of the building?" Watson says.  
"Because the rest of the building is merely a place for the members of the institute to live. Barely used anymore. They abolished the rule that their trainee Consulting Detectives had to be in the institute twenty-four/seven."  
"So, now we enter?" asks John.  
"That's the plan," I say and I turn to twist the bronze doorknob but just before I do, he adds: "Sherlock has been awfully quiet."

All three of us turn to face him. #24 is frozen on the spot, staring at the study. He is terrified, even more terrified than when we were at 221B.  
"Sherlock?" John asks in concern. #24 gives no reply.  
"Twenty-four, what is it? What are you so afraid of?" But he just shakes his head lightly.  
I take him by the shoulders, like I did when he refused to look at me, and pull him away from the "Always-At-Risk-of-Starting-a-Bicker Watson-Duo" so that we can talk under four eyes.  
"I'm not going in there," he murmurs shakily, "I can't."  
"Look, I know what you've gone through, you know that. We were raised under the same protocol rules. So you can tell me about everything they did to you and I promise you I will understand." Still he shakes his head and his eyes are shining with approaching tears. A member of the line, crying! The thought of it almost makes me laugh out loud.  
"Twenty-four, we had the exact same childhood!"  
"No... What they did– what  _he_  did. It wasn't part of protocol." My face drops. #24 was treated even worse than the protocol allows?  
"What did they do to you?" I ask softly, so that Watson and John won't hear. I can see the inner-battle within #24 but at some point I guess he realizes that keeping the pain hidden isn't always the right answer (even if the people of this very building have been telling us that all these years).  
"Fine, I'll tell you," he purposely says loud enough so that the two siblings who have been quietly waiting behind us can here as well.  
"I'll tell you about the hell that went down in that study."


	14. #24

My hands are trembling while I tell them the story, and before my eyes dance the images from times past, which still haunt my sleep:  
 _I was in the study, ten years old or so, sitting at the desk and playing with a stuffed dog. I had at that point already accepted my fate, was even excited to learn how to deduce (I didn't really know the consequences back then). The Keeper walked in, looking angrier than he usually did._ _  
_ _"What's wrong, Keeper?" I asked concerned, and he looked down at me in even more disgust._ _  
_ _"Is your new student bad?" I'd remembered that he'd recently started teaching #25, who I knew was about five years younger than me. The Keeper's face turned a deep scarlet red._ _  
_ _"Why aren't you talking to me?" This time, I was even scared, scared that he might hit me or something of the sort._

_That is exactly what he did._

_He grabbed a nearby umbrella and smashed it into my back. I called out, fell from my chair and dropped the dog. The Keeper let out a large growl, took the dog, my then most precious toy, and ripped it to shreds with his bare hands. I began to cry. The moment I did he let go of the massacred stuffed animal, took the umbrella again and hit me once, for every word:_ _  
_ _"YOU. WILL. NOT. SHOW. EMOTIONS." I continued to cry, even louder than before. It went on for hours and hours, or so it felt. He only stopped when I had no energy left to cry._ _  
_ _"That'll teach you. The lesson is over." And he walked out of the room._

_It did teach me in fact. But it took him years,_ _ **years**_ _of hitting, scratching, screaming and occasionally even whipping for my back to become numb to his hits and for me to stop crying. What Keeper never realized though, was that just because I am not showing emotion, doesn't mean I have none. On the contrary: I am_ _ **constantly**_ _terrified to have them, which is a paradox in itself._  
"I don't understand what happened; why he became so angry with me, so suddenly..."

John, Joan and #25 are very silent, just taking it in. I stare at the door again, and staring at it makes me even more anxious than before. My breathing is quickening, and I just remember every single beating to the back, feel where my scars are, the ones his whip made, and there's a scream trapped in my throat waiting to escape. They're talking now, I know they're talking but all I hear is muffled sounds under my breath and my quickening heartbeat while I feel him hit me again.  
 _He beats. I scream. "Pain will teach you not to feel!"_ _  
_And the door is in front of me. And in there is the study and maybe even–  
"Twenty-four."  
 _I am crying and he punches me in the face._  
I promised myself it would stop. That now that I was a consulting detective everything would be okay, there would be no more hitting.  
"Sherlock."  
 _He hits me. But not my ten-year-old self, he's hitting_ _ **me**_ _._ ****  
"Sherlock!"  
 _He takes a knife and goes along my scars, opening what I thought was closed and over now._  
I scream.  
 _"Sherlock!"_

I fall to my knees and almost flop over, but John catches me just in time. In the distance I swear I hear a child screaming in pain.


	15. John

Sherlock passes out in my arms. I picture what just happened. He seems to have had a breakdown or something and it angers me that someone could've messed up my best friend this much. Then again, I think selfishly, if they hadn't perhaps we never would've met or got along. Either way, I want to avenge him. Maybe then he'll be okay again.  _Was_  he ever okay? Or was he just hiding it from me until yesterday? I don't know, but I know that if we find the reason he will be more at peace with himself. Go back to being Sherlock Holmes.  _My_  Sherlock Holmes.  
"He was beaten because of me," says #25, while looking at him as he rests in my lap.  
"Don't be ridiculous, Sherl-" Joan starts.  
"Stop calling me that, Watson!" He interrupts and I can honestly say I'm happy he gets her to shut up.  
"I thought you didn't have a pr-"  
"Please understand: In this building, I am and always will be Twenty-five and he will always be Twenty-four."  
"Fine,  _Twenty-five_ , why would he have been beaten because of you?"  
"Because I was an A-star student. The Keeper told me I was a natural at 'not having emotions'."  
"That doesn't mean-" And I smile before he cuts her off because I know he's going to do it.  
"He complained to me about his older student all the time. Told me how much better I was at...  _everything_ ," he begins pacing around, "That I had done this for four and a half years less than Number Twenty-four but had already surpassed him. Probably because he kept BEATING HIS STUDENT INSTEAD OF TEACHNG HIM!" #25 roars the last part at the entire building, and I'm glad I'm not the only angry person here.  
"Sherlock-"  
" _Refrain_  from calling me that!" He yells, and as I look at my best friend's troubled, sleeping face, I am so provoked by Joan and so hurt by what happened with Sherlock that I really feel the need to join in here and let  _my_  feelings out. I take off my coat, bunch it up and carefully lay Sherlock's head on it, while I stand up. #25 is pacing around, and this whole story is starting to crack his facade as well.  
"I'm just trying to help," she cries helplessly and I recognize that tone. She used it when she was crying to me about the exam. My fists tighten.  
"SHUT UP, WATSON!" he yells and his face has gone lightly red. This is the perfect time to join in.  
"Yeah, shut up!"  
"John, stay out of this," she says angrily. I shake my head.  
"Oh no... I've been waiting for this all my life." I take a step closer.  
"I am  _sick_  and tired of hearing you  _constantly_  saying  _'I was just trying to help', 'he started it', 'it wasn't my fault_ '. Your image is  _everything_  to you and I am  _done_  being the victim because of it. This is all  _your_  fault anyways." She looks properly insulted by that. Perfect.  
"Okay, you know what?" She yells, and I swear I can hear the London-ness in it. "I am absolutely done with you treating me as if everything I do is wrong and for selfish reasons! I offered you help! You didn't take it! That's your loss! But you saying that  _your_  friend had a horrible childhood because of  _me_?! Are you kidding me?!"  
" _You_  called me! If you hadn't this would've never happened!"  
"As a matter of fact  _no_. It was Sherlock who called." And she points at #25 who stopped being part of this fight a long time ago and seen to Sherlock.  
"Because  _you_  wanted to call me though you  _knew_ we could never work this out again. You missed your chance for that a  _long time ago._ And now look at you: Poor Joan H. Watson, always blaming others, except when I actually  _did_  help you!"  
"I thanked you! What more do you want?! You and your stubborn pride made it very clear you didn't need anything more to feel superior to me."  
"My recognition. For the world to know you were a failed doctor even  _before_  you killed your patient!" The look on her face tells me I've gone too far but I don't care.  
"Fuck you, John!" she screams and punches me in the face, but she's hardly an ex-army official like me so it doesn't hurt that much. Then she bursts into tears and it's so surprising that at first I have no reaction to it, I just watch her, wiping her face. I want to be childish again, make fun of her because I made her cry but then I realize she's not crying because of me. She's mourning and grieving over her patient... Something it would seem she's been letting eat her up inside for a very long time.  
"I'm a failure at _everything_!" she sobs. I take a tiny step closer, curious because I've never seen her like this once. Oh wait, I have.  
" 'How could you be a failure, when all your life all you've done is win?' " I say the exact same words I said when she said that to me on the phone, begging for my help. Joan looks up, in surprise.  
"I didn't win every time..." I don't know why I've stopped giving her mean replies, but I want to continue having a somewhat normal conversation, even if that includes one of us crying.  
"Joan, you even aced a test, you weren't remotely ready for a couple weeks before." She looks down again and let's out one more huge sob.  
"No I didn't!"  
"What do you mean?"  
"I..." she takes a sharp breath and let's out another sob, "I  _cheated!_ " My face drops.  
"You– what?"  
"When I came to you. I wasn't able to remember anything because... Because of all the pressure. Everyone wanted me to succeed and ace the exam. And it had been like that all my life. Only there it wasn't just school. If I didn't know these things then I might..."  
"Then you might what?" I asked cautiously.  
"THEN I MIGHT MAKE A MISTAKE LIKE I MADE ON HIM!" She screams angrily. I don't say anything. At some point she continues:  
"So I asked you for help and... And you did everything you could've done. But it still wasn't enough. I left your flat a couple nights before, knowing that even if I did pass that exam, everyone would still be dissappointed. And I– I just snapped. I just... There was no other way. So when people asked me how I'd done it. I didn't mention you because... because..." Another sob escapes her and she can't finish that sentence. But suddenly it all comes together and I understand.  
"Because you were afraid it would come out you had cheated, and that if you mentioned me, I would be in trouble too." She nods lightly. I think for a while as she quietly whimpers a little.

And then, though I try to fight it for a second, the unthinkable happens:

I walk over to her, take her in my arms, pat her on the back and tell her it will be okay.


	16. Joan

"It's gonna be okay," John whispers as I cry into his shoulder.  
And I realize: this is how it's supposed to be, what ordinary families look like. The older wiser brother hugging the sad little sister and promising her that even though nothing is all right, everything is. I've seen it countless times before, but I never felt it, not really. And it feels  _good_. Makes me forget the most terrible thing I did on my exam. I embrace my brother's hug and enjoy the safety of it.  
I've always hated myself for even considering to forgive what I did, but now that I feel like my older brother accepts me, however short this moment we're having will last, I can because it would seem that at least for a couple seconds, he has forgiven me for everything, too. The tears have long stopped coming and I'm afraid that if John notices he'll remember where he stands, and we'll start fighting again. So I don't say a word, because me doing the talking tends to be the source of our quarrels.  
"Well, that's one of our problems solved," says Sherlock, and John and I instinctively part from each other and look at him, as our moment fades away. The consulting detective is kneeling on the floor and now has the other consulting detective's head resting on his lap like John did before.  
"Brother and sister are finally reunited." John and I exchange an awkward glance. I don't want to say that I believe so too, because that would make John disagreeing even more painful. But he doesn't speak either so we both just stare at the floor uncomfortably.  
"Don't worry," Sherlock says, "From what I hear siblings always run out of things to say to each other when they've stopped fighting." But that reminds me. There is something I can say to my brother:

"I'm sorry." And in those two words I say everything I'm feeling right now: I'm sorry for making John feel neglected and unimportant. I'm sorry for not having told anyone that it was he who tried to help me when I was in need of it more than ever. I'm sorry I got so mad at him today. I'm sorry I cheated on that exam. I'm sorry I let a patient die. I'm sorry I didn't want to face that fact. I'm sorry #24 had to go through what he went through and in fact still is going through. I'm sorry Sherlock had to be witness to my losing complete control over myself.  
John looks at me as if when he hears my apology, he can really hear  _all_  my apologies.  
"Thank you," he says. And I swear I almost punch him again.

Don't  _I_ deserve some sort of apology, too? Wasn't it  _John_  who refused to even step into a cab with me, blamed  _me_ for this situation, and said a near _unforgiveable_ thing?! For a second, I forgive myself, purely because I want to have a reason not to forgive him, if that makes any sense.  
"I-" I start but then I just run my tongue through my mouth, put on my most sarcastic smile and say, "You know what? We have more important business here to deal with." Sherlock looks away from the two of us, disappointed as far as I can tell. Of  _course_ , Mister My-Father-Is-Pure-Evil has the right to judge here. John glares at me a little, but his usual flame of anger is gone... I guess a 'Thank you' was almost more than what I could've asked for. But as I said, we have more important business now.  
In that moment, #24 let's out a groan and pushes himself up into a sitting position.  
"Twenty-Four? Are you all right?" Sherlock asks him. #24 looks around the hallway thoughtfully and I see the recognition in his face but the fear in him has tied down a lot. Again, I can't believe this is the same person as the man who just fainted due to trauma a couple minutes ago. He ignores Sherlock's question completely and gets up rather quickly.  
"Do you remember what happened?" asks John and I am sure it will trigger something else in him but instead #24 says:  
"John, we have lived together for two years and nine months and you have recently been told that my brain was trained to solve cases since I was five. I think it is by now accustomed to you that I do not  _forget_  things."  
John turns to me and Sherlock.  
"Yeah, he's all right."  
"But are you going to be all right with going in there?" I ask, truly concerned for his health. A couple seconds pass in which #24 simply stares at me and I back at him.  
"Yes, I should be. After all, it's just a door." He says it in a way that I'm not quite sure he himself believes it's  _just_  a door.  
"Are you absolutely sure?"  
" _Yes!_ " he says a little annoyed so I place my hand on the knob, look back to the three others and wait for each of them to nod. I turn it and walk inside first.

We are now in a beautiful study with two mahogany desks against each other, an oak fireplace with detailed carvings of daisies and other flowers. After I get in and the others follow me, I turn around and walk backwards slowly. The ceiling above us is freshly painted, but that's probably to cover the cracks in the old building, which make the chandelier above us seem like a  _charming_  cause of death.

I can already see the case file piled on top of the others back at the loft in New York. CHANDELIER IMPAILEMENT.

I bet Sherlock and #24 notice it too and are delighted. Beside the door that John's closing now is the aforementioned umbrella stand with one umbrella. I'm afraid #24 might see it but am unable to do anything to hide it, which wouldn't draw attention to it, so all I do is look away and head for the middle of the study. A yellow tiffany lamp sits on one of the desks. Intrigued, I pull the chain on it, but the light bulb refuses to switch on. "Dead," Sherlock says from behind me. I frown and turn back to the rest. "So what are we looking for exactly?" I ask the three men, looking at each other.  
"Some kind of sign for something being hidden," #24 says matter-of-factly. We turn away from each other and each go into separate corners of the room.  
"Wouldn't it be harder to find this sort of thing than just by looking around if it's in a room you've been taught in for over ten years?" John asks.  
"He has a point," I pipe in expecting a trademark John glare but he just keeps searching over the arch, as we both wait for an answer.  
"This organization is insane on so many levels we're hoping it is on this one too," #24 explains.  
"Plus," Sherlock adds, "This is their only building. If the information exists, it's here. And if it's here, it's probably in the study."  
"All right..." I say, a little uncertain.

We search the room for hours. At first it's systematic and calm, but #24 becomes more frustrated by the second and Sherlock isn't quite _not_ doing that either: He throws over drawers to look behind them. The contents, everything from magnifying glasses to test tubes to powdered graphite, spill out. Sherlock rushes to his side, not to stop him, but to see what is to be found.  
"NOTHING!" Sherlock screams and kicks a tube so that it breaks. And #24 moves onto the next. And so on.  
I watch them in silence to flabbergasted to interfere. After some time I noticed John is standing next to me, watching them with an open mouth as well. We exchange glances but say-  
"NOTHING!" This time it's #24. He spins around screaming at the ceiling.  
"NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING,  _NOTHING_." The chandelier shakes. #24 falls to his knees and groans loudly. Even Sherlock notices this is too much. He attempts to help the consulting detective up, but the curly-haired man just growls at him, stands up on his own terms and runs to the bookshelf on the other end of the bureau. "There must be a place we haven't looked yet." He begins grabbing books we've already looked through and carefully placed back at their place and throws them behind him, and incidentally, at us. "Duck!" John yells and, of all things, pulls me down, so that I avoid an Encyclopedia Britannica being flung right at my face. "He's lost it," I hear him whisper while we both lie on the floor and books fly above our heads. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a huge bible is thrown so hard it hits the other wall.

And breaks through. I catch a glimpse of some kind of safe.  
"Wait!" I yell and #24 looks back, two more books already in his hands.  
"What?" he spits. His face looks like it's about to melt off in his boiling fury.  
"I think I've found it."


	17. #25

I turn around and see a safe with some numbered code on the other side of the beige wall. So many times I've wondered what the purpose of the line is and so many times I've stared at that wall when it was more exciting than my lesson. It must've always been there, because I remember the wall never being re-painted or anything of the sort.  
As #24 takes a step closer, I can feel he can't believe what he's seeing, it's still too good to be true. I go to him and place my hand on his shoulder but he continues getting closer and shakes me off. I keep walking a little behind him. He stands still when his face is but a foot away from the safe in the wall. #24 doesn't move an inch anymore and simply stares at the small zero-to-nine keyboard on the safe. After some time I look back, to find John and Watson have stayed where they are, so as not to interfere. A couple minutes pass before Watson breaks the silence:  
"What are you doing?" He doesn't turn around.  
"Trying to figure out the code, obviously."  
"You think that finger prints would be visible on a thirty-year-old safe, stuck in the wall?" she asks, and her knowledge of such things seems to catch John off guard. #24 turns around as well, rather impressed.  
"Well what do _you_ suggest?" She quickly walks over to the safe and looks at it as well, John following more slowly, so that he isn't alone, on the other end of the room. Watson stands almost twice as far from the safe as #24 did, as if she's scared to touch it. Her eyes flash around it a couple times.  
"I don't know... Maybe there's a clue somewhere?"  
"A clue?" I ask, "No one's supposed to go looking for it, why would they have left a clue?"  
"Well, you both _have_ blindly followed that rule for quite some time. And they hid it in a wall. And you aren't even supposed to know where this building is. If everyone's forgotten what the point of all this is because no one's ever told them, wouldn't they also have no way to get to it? And if there's no way to get to it, what's the point of it?"  
"But the safe can't nearly be as old as the line," says John to her, but his tone with her is different, I'm sure. "Wouldn't that mean they remembered the code?" #24 points his arm a little towards John but doesn't look at him.  
"No, no, no, John, she's right. No one _did_ remember the code, no one was ever supposed to. It was just left there for people to figure it out... They 'updated' their technology. Same code, different protection."  
"So where's the clue?" John asks. #24 turns around, passes Joan and starts tearing at the wall, throwing pieces of it behind him. They don't hit anyone, but as they fall to John's feet, white dust puffs up and tickles his nose. A loud sneeze fills the study.  
"Gesundheit," #24 says without looking up. When he's finished, the entire safe is revealed. #24 laughs in pleasure as he seems to pull something out from behind the wall. "What did you find?" I ask. He reveals a small strip of paper.  
"The clue."

We all pass it around reading it, thinking it might change or be more precise if someone else did it:

_Rules have always ruled us._

"What does it mean?" Watson asks, as if #24 and I must know of course because _we're_ the consulting detectives here. #24 clasps his hands together and walks back to the safe.  
"So rules, eh? How do you portray rules in numbers? Rulers; kings, monarchs, princes. Can also mean instrument of measurement; centimetres, inches, kilometres, nautical miles.  
What rules and rulers are there?"  
"The law," Watson says.  
"The Queen," John adds.  
"It's not the law," I say, "That's too general."  
"No. Not the Queen, she didn't rule when the line was founded," #24 says.  
"Then whichever king or queen was ruling at the time."  
"Nobody knows when it was founded, statistically much more likely a king, but portraying his name in numbers would either be far too easy or much too complicated. Come on! What rules are there!?"  
I've been thinking it since the start but holding back saying it:  
"The ten rules. The ten unbreakable rules of the line." #24 turns around. "That's it!"  
Excited, I push past him to the code, wanting to punch it in myself.  
"Quick," I say, "Name them to me."  
"You kno-"  
" _Name them to me!_ " I demand. #24 takes a breath.  
"Rule number one: _My duty is to my country, and to my country only; never shall I value the life of an individual or my own more than the well being of the United Kingdom._ _  
_Rule number two _: I commit to a life of solitude for the good of my country and for my own good, for caring is a disadvantage to the line and its members_.  
Rule number three _: I shall not under any circumstances seek information on how the line was created and what its purpose is._ _  
_Rule number four _: I shall never ask for money, glory or love in return for my duties and shall accept them with reluctance when offered._ _  
_Rule number five: _I shall listen to my assigned Keeper and shall do as he says, when he says, without any questions asked._ _  
_Rule number six: _I shall always do everything needed to make public enemies answer to their crimes. I may break the rules of the general public so long as this is for the sake of justice and does no harm to innocent civilians._ _  
_Rule number seven: _Under no circumstances shall I tell anyone outside my birth family about the line or anything to do with it._ _  
_Rule number eight: _Sherlock Holmes is my name, if I am asked for my name I shall always say Sherlock Holmes, except if cover is needed for my duty. On no account do I ever refer to myself by my number; my number is reserved to the line only._ _  
_Rule number nine: _I shall stay out of attention and avoid it at all cost, for civilians cannot know about the line. If suspicions grow it is my duty to lie in order to protect the line's discretion._ _  
_And finally rule number ten _: Under no circumstances shall I ever seek contact with any other live member of the line as contact would jeopardize rule number two_."  
#24 sighs. The whole time I've been staring at the code, trying to figure something out that made sense with what he was saying.  
"Nothing!" I cry out, annoyed. John looks as if he's never heard something more terrifying. I think Watson may be on the verge of crying again and I realize, that the rules by which I've always lived my life, that I too, know by heart, are horror in 'normal people's' eyes and that does scare me a little, tiny bit.  
"Ten rules," #24 says, closing his eyes, "What else do we have ten of? Ten fingers, ten toes, ten millimetres in a centimetre, ten years in a decade."  
"Ten percent, one tenth, a scale of one to ten," I add.  
"Ten lords a-leaping," says Watson.  
"Ten Commandments?" John asks.  
Though his eyes are closed, I can tell #24 is rolling them. "Yes, that's what we're searching a connection to, the ten rules, John."  
"No I mean the Ten Commandments." He opens his eyes.  
"Which ten commandments?"  
"The Ten Commandments in the Bible. You know, 'Thou shalt not commit adultery' and such?" #24 and I give him a look that no, we don't know.  
"Anyways, it sounds a little similar to your ten rules, and maybe there's a connection..."  
"'Rules have always ruled us'..." Watson mumbles to herself. Suddenly she has an idea:  
"That's it, John! They mean religion. Religion has always ruled us."  
I laugh. "Religion doesn't rule anyone any more, Watson, don't you read the papers?"  
"No, but, this whole thing must be at least a hundred years old, right? And religion ruled a lot of countries _then_." My eyes widen a little.  
"But then how do we express these Ten Commandments in numbers?" #24 asks. Everyone is silent for a moment.  
"By where they are in the Bible!" John exclaims and fetches the large book on the ground, flung at him not ten minutes ago. He opens it up, looking for the section but #24 grabs it from him, let's it fall on the ground and leans down, frantically searching through its pages.  
"I've got it!" he yells, pointing at the paragraph. I forget that I actually wanted to punch in the code in the rush of the moment and John is already rushing towards the safe again. "What is it?" he asks.  
"Exodus: twenty. Passages one to seventeen."  
"So two-zero-one-two-one-seven?"  
"No! Not _that_ two. One _to_ seventeen."  
"Oh," I watch him carefully punch in the numbers:  
2...0...1...1...7.

For a moment that seems to last an eternity there is silence. John waits for something, and I wonder what it is. A sign? Someone's 'okay'? Finally, he pulls at the safe and–  
"Bravo, children." Instantly recognizing that voice, #24 and I spin around. The Keeper is standing in the door way.


	18. #24

Unlike #25 I turn much more slowly and with more precaution when I hear the Keeper's voice. He still smiles in the same, despicable way he always has, and it makes me want to vomit. I imagine the most terrible things happening to him in my head: the chandelier falling on his head; me, grabbing that umbrella and hitting him to the ground. One hit for every word.  
 _I. WILL. TEACH. YOU. SOMETHING. ABOUT. PAIN._  
I imagine kicking him to the ground, grabbing the letter opener from the desk and giving him the same scars I have. I want to whip him until he stinks and flies buzz around his back.

But instead of that, all I do is lean back and feel my terror of him slowly creep up my back and paralyse me.  
"Well, well, well," Keeper says, leaning on his walking stick and taking a step closer. He's much older than when I last saw him, obviously.  
"I always knew that one day, I'd be standing in this doorway, before you, Twenty-four. Caught mid-treason of your master, your cause and your own country..."  
I want to say something and interrupt him. I can't.  
"But, Twenty-five, I _never_ expected this from _you._ "  
"You never expected what from me? A free will?"  
"This back-stabbing... You were always such a good student. You loved solving your puzzles."  
"Yes, so I decided to crack this one."  
"I did everything for you. _Everything_ , Twenty-five. And this is how you repay me? By breaking every single thing I've taught you?"  
"Actually no, only eight rules. And you may have done 'everything' for me. But you did absolutely _nothing_ for him!" #25 spits the words out as he points back at me.  
"He was bound to fail from the start! Look at him. Emotions are eating him up again. He _is_ nothing."  
John pipes in: "He maybe wouldn't've failed if you'd –I don't know– _supported_ him!"  
"I _did_!"  
"By beating him! If he is 'nothing', it's because that's what you made him!" Joan adds.

They are yelling about me, fighting for me and still I can't move. Because this is my Keeper and there are so many things he can hit me with in this room.

John looks at Joan a little hurt by what she said about me, but he knows she didn't mean it that way. Suddenly he looks as if he's remembered something.  
"But it doesn't matter anymore, because we've got what we came for now." He runs back to the safe and pulls out an ancient looking book. Instantly, I feel like I can move again, my only drive now being to find out what the cause is. I run to John and tear the book from his hand like I did with the Bible earlier. #25 rushes to me as I fly through the pages looking for the cause.  
"I've read it, Twenty-four," the Keeper says. The other consulting detective and I look up simultaneously.  
"And?" #25 asks after some time. His smile widens.  
"You don't want to know what it says."  
"I'm a part of the line. I can take it," I spit at him.  
"Any other member of the line: _Sure_. But you, Twenty-four? That poor little boy, crying over his stuffed dog?" I have this urge now to read it and prove him wrong. I _am_ Number Twenty-four and I can take anything this stupid organization has to throw at me. I find the paragraph and read it to myself:

_The line was first founded by King George II in the year of 1753. It was created to protect the royal family from the Goldthumbs, which had started infiltrating in the country's national security. To avoid treason he selected children at birth and isolated them from society and withheld their cause from them, so they could not deem it unworthy. He set up an organization to train these children and prepare them so that they would be agile both physically and –more importantly– mentally. He named them Sherlock Holmes #1 and Sherlock Holmes #2 and added unexplained laws for those who had the name Sherlock Holmes so that these men could carry out their tasks without others questioning them._

I read it. I cannot believe what I just read. I am numb.  
"What are the Goldthumbs?" Joan asks from behind me. I didn't even notice the Watsons had snuck behind us by now too.  
#25 explains when he realizes I'm not ready to speak.  
"It's... It's a criminal group. Sort of like the British mafia..."  
"Why haven't I heard of them?" she asks.  
"Well... because the organization disintegrated around 1820."  
"So you mean-"  
But I cut her off because #25 actually saying that sets me off like a volcano in erruption. I throw the book to the ground and run towards the Keeper.  
" _YOU! You_ did this to me!" I grab him by the collar.  
"Sherlock stop," John calls from behind. The Keeper laughs.  
"What? Are we a little slow, _Sherlock Holmes_?"  
"You _knew_. It could've only been you who changed the safe before I even arrived. You knew from the start that this was for nothing!" Though I am bearing his entire weight and holding him by his shirt very roughly he still seems unafraid and smiles. I hope he's not smiling at the tears running down my face.  
"I am part of the line of Keepers. Cause or no, it is my duty to continue the tradition. And so is it yours."  
"I have NO DUTY TOWARDS _YOU_!" I shake him in my arms, screaming.  
"Ah, ah, ah. Haven't you forgotten? Rule number five: _Listen to your Keeper_!"  
I let go of him, so that he falls down to the ground, and slap him as hard as I can in the face.

He calls out.

"Haven't you forgotten?" I lean into him and feel my way to the cane he's still holding on to. "I am not the little boy crying over his stuffed dog anymore. And _you_ are no longer the strong man you used to be." Finally I pull the stick completely from his grasp and start hitting, just like I imagined it. One word for each beating.  
"I. WILL. TEACH. YOU. SOMETHING. ABOUT. PAIN."  
"Sherlock, stop!" For a moment I do stop, because it isn't John, it's Joan, who calls me by my 'name' for the first time. But then I continue. I hit and hit, and I already can't hear the Keeper's yells anymore, like I'm so used to this. I'm trying to let my anger out but there's so much, it just keeps coming, pouring out like red, hot lava.  
I hit him in the feet, then the legs (I swear I can hear bone break) and I slowly work my way up to his head, for the final blow.  
"Sherlock!" This time it's #25 but I know he's only doing that to distract me. I will kill the Keeper. It's my right, as of rule number six: _I shall always do everything needed to make public enemies answer to their crimes. I may break the rules of the general public so long as this is for the sake of justice and does no harm to innocent civilians._ Keeper is just as much of a civilian as I am, and he sure as hell is not innocent. No rules broken. My arms ache, but I must keep going. I'm almost finished. Only the ribs, the shoulders and then...  
"GOOD. NIGHT. KEEP-" But I am interrupted by the sound of a gunshot.

The cane falls to the ground right next to the Keeper's head.

And so do I.


	19. Four Thoughts

 

 

I only realize that my sister's reached into my pocket, pulled out my gun and shot it at my best friend when it already happened.

"Joan, what have you done?!" I cry out in horror.

But I am not mad.

Why am I not mad?

* * *

I sob an explanation, though neither John, nor Sherlock are listening.

"He- he was going to kill him and I couldn't... let him- let him do that. He wouldn't be able to live with- I don't know I... I just- He was waving a stick around- I couldn't go near him and- There was no other- I... I'm sorry I- I'M SORRY."

Tears are streaming down my face as I watch the two running to the man I might have just put into mortal danger.

The gun in my hand is still warm to the touch.

* * *

 

 

I hold him in my arms, as John hurries here to be with him as well.

The only other member, the only other person who can understands me, the only other Sherlock Holmes, _dying._

"My Twenty-four..." I whisper.

I may be crying, but I don't know.

There's too much blood everywhere to tell.

* * *

_I can't-_

_I can't think I-_

_Everything hurts-_

**_Red-_ **

_It's so hard to remember-_

~~_Joan-_ ~~

_~~John-~~_

_Keeper-_

_**Kill-**_

**_Red-_ **

**_#25-_ **

_He's-_

_He's talking to me-_

_I know he is but-_

_What is he-_

_Saying-_

                                    ..."My Twenty-four."

**_Twenty-four._ **

_That's me-_

"Twenty-five," I mumble-

_**Red-**_

_But who else am I-_

_What am I without my number?_

_Number-_

**_Name-_ **

**** **_Number-_ **

**_~~Name-~~_ **

_#24 is nothing-_

 

_~~Sherlock Holmes-~~                                                                                                                                               **"I. WILL. TEACH. YOU. SOMETHING. ABOUT. PAI–"**_

_I **am #24-**_

~~_I am Sherlock Holmes-_ ~~

_**I am nothing-**_

_**Red-**_

**_What is the difference between-_ **

_Sherlock Holmes and #24-_ _What is going-_

~~_Line_ _-_~~

_I can't think-_

_I-_

_I-_

_I-_

_I-_


	20. #24

When I awaken, I can't remember a thing. And when I attempt to sit up, pain zips through my thigh like lightning. Groaning, I lower myself back into the huge cushion placed behind me. I look around. Where am I? What happened?  
Fluorescent light flickers above me and I am covered in irritatingly white sheets.  
I must be in a hospital room.

"Ah, you're awake." Frantically, I turn around to the man in the chair sitting next to me, expecting to see John.  
"Twenty-five," I breathe. His smile is gentle. Gentler than any smile I've ever seen from someone who was part of the organization.  
"H-how did I end up here?" I ask looking around.  
"Well..." He pauses to choose the proper words, "Watson sort of shot you in the leg…"

Sudden agony, penetrating my left thigh and sending a wave of pain through me like a pebble forming ripples in still water, so much I recall.  
"Why?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows, wondering what events could have possibly led to that happening. Before telling me, #25 bends in front of me and holds onto my hand. Hand holding is an alien and illogical concept to me, but the moment they touch, I understand why ordinary people like it. There is something somewhat comforting in the warmth of another human being.  
"To stop you from killing someone and regretting it later."

All the memories finally resurface and I put it all together like a ten-piece puzzle. I purse my lips, as I remember the feeling of that cane between my finger tips.  
"I wouldn't have ever regretted it," I say, but I am not angry with her for having stopped me. I feel light now. As light as I thought I'd feel once I had killed him.

But then the painful truth that drove me to wanting to commit homicide in the first place comes back to me in a flash.  
"What now?" I say, far more desperately than I want to sound. But #25 just keeps smiling and strokes my bare arm a little.  
"Well, do you want to be a consulting detective?" He asks. It's the first time anyone has ever asked me who I want to be. I think about it and come to a realization that really I've known from the start.  
"I do."  
"So there you have it."  
"But... there still is no cause. I've been doing it all for nothing. Everything was for nothing."  
"The way I see it you can either think of it as no cause..." He looks around the room "Or you can decide for yourself what your cause is."  
"I've never looked at it that way before... Is this what you realized after your, you know...?"  
"A little," he admits, "I know now that I wasn't quite feeling as free as I could."  
I laugh lightly and I don't even know why.  
"So what are you going to do now?"  
"Well, they'll probably release you soon, so I guess it's back to New York for Watson and me. I've been called up to investigate the staged suicide of a secretary on Brooklyn Bridge."  
"Oh..." an odd feeling fills my stomach at the thought of #25, the only other who truly understands and knows me, leaving.  
"Don't be like that," he says, "This most definitely won't be our final farewell." I smile at the idea of another 'adventure' as John would call it, with the two of them.  
"It's been a pleasure," I say as though he's going to get on the plane in two minutes. Which, knowing #25, is not that implausible.  
"Did you notice that?" he remarks.  
"What?" I ask.  
"That little thing there in your voice. I believe 'normal people' call it emotion. It seems to be returning."

That comment though doesn't make me happy, and the Keeper's voice echoes through my head.  
 _Emotions are eating him up again. He is_ _ **nothing**_ _._  
"I don't want to be nothing." I whisper it so gently I nearly jump when #25 replies:  
"You're not nothing, Sherlock," The sound of my name startles me. "That's what he wants you to be."  
"I'm weak," I say, remembering every single time I lashed out over the past couple of days.  
"See, that's where the Keeper got you wrong, Sherlock," he says it again, and when he says it, I feel like it actually is _my_ name, "You're the strongest of us all. You never gave up on your feelings or let him control who you are. And, oh my dear Sherlock Holmes Number Twenty-four, you are and always will be, no matter what he may've said, a genius." He gets up and leaves, giving me one last smile.  
"Thank you, Sherlock," I say. He's already turned around but I can feel him stop and enjoy the sound of his name.  
"Goodbye, Sherlock. I believe somebody's very eager to see you."

A couple minutes later, John crashes through the door and throws himself onto me. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a hug but it feels far too nice.


	21. Joan

John and I sit in the waiting room of the hospital silently. I can tell he's expecting Sherlock to come down the hall to tell us that Sherlock's woken up any minute now.  
It's still hard for me to even keep track of the two in my own head. But I prefer the name Sherlock to a number. Any second now, John will explode and yell at me for having risked the life of his best friend. But it never seems to come and he doesn't even look remotely mad.

After half an hour has passed, I just can't take it anymore.  
"Why aren't you screaming at me?!" John looks up, startled.  
"Should I be?"  
"Yes!" I yell, but become quieter because other people might think I'm insane for saying the next part: "I shot at your friend!"  
"You did it to help him. And he isn't badly hurt." He forgives me, and I just don't understand how he possibly could. Am I insane for thinking he wouldn't or is he?  
"I'm not an expert like you, I could've hit an internal organ!" I am becoming hysterical. "Why aren't you punishing me?!" I feel my breathing quickening as guilt just keeps nagging on me. I did the same stupid thing again. I thought I had everything under control and I couldn't bare someone dying, only this time it magically worked.  
 _But it could've not worked. Sherlock could've died because of me!_  
I feel my eyes water up as my breathing gets even quicker.

And then  
  
he takes me in his arms again,  
  
like he did before,  
  
but I think this time he's doing it consciously,  
  
and I am absolutely sure that he's enjoying it too.

Tears go down my face and my breathing consists of quick, gulpy pants. I put my head against his chest and feel my brother's steady heart beat.

_Pum pum... Pum pum... Pum pum_ …  
"Because you're punishing yourself enough." I take another breath and look up to him.  
"You... You mean, you aren't mad at me anymore?"  
"Joan, you shot at my friend. Yes. But you did it to stop him from killing a man, out of sheer revenge. They're letting him off with this one but if he'd given him the fatal blow? Who knows… And you were right. I don't think he would've taken it later, not with how he was... But he's going to be better now. And you helped."  
"You don't know that," I mumble.  
"You're right, I don't. But I can hope."  
"And what about... this all being my fault, remember?"  
"Joan, why are you coming up with reasons for why this is all your fault? It isn't. I was wrong to say that. I guess just because once you called, Sherlock started showing a more unstable side that doesn't mean he didn't have it before. Also I was wrong about another thing."  
"What?" I ask and my nose is full so my voice just sounds disgusting.  
"You."  
"What do you mean?" I ask snorting back grossly, and I noticed my brother slightly cringe then smile because it did sound quite funny.  
"I'm sorry..." And in that "sorry" I hear _all_ his sorrys. _I'm sorry I've been jealous of you all my life. I'm sorry I blamed you for having the same name. I'm sorry for turning down your help and then acting so stubborn about it. I'm sorry I've been avoiding you for years. I'm sorry you lost a patient. I'm sorry I said what I said. I'm sorry I never noticed how broken Sherlock was..._

"I think we got to know each other on the wrong foot. My name is John Hamish Watson and yours?" He stretches out his hand. It's so surprising, I actually laugh, which is the greatest relief one could experience because moments ago I thought I'd never laugh again. With glee I shake it.  
"Joan Hilary Watson. Pleased to meet you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really happy with this chapter... But I can't make it any better so... ugh


	22. Epilogue: Sherlock

When I was eight, I was asked to write an essay about my name for my English class (which at that point was still unrelated to my classes with the organization): its origin, its meaning, why I was called that, whether I liked it or not.

Of course, every word I wrote down was a lie but when I accidentally blurted about this to John a couple days after Sherlock and Joan left, he advised me that it would be a good idea to write something of the sort again, so that I could, to quote "finally try to move on from my fucked up situation". The idea of moving on was distant to me before I met Sherlock Holmes #25 and non-existent at the age I wrote about how my parents had chosen that name for its meaning of "fare locks", which became ironic when I grew older and my light hair turned dark, but now that I am no longer a part of them, I feel like perhaps that possibility is still doable.

So here it goes:

**Names**

Names are basically a failed attempt at describing. Like trying to explain what the colour red looks like to someone born blind. It is usually for this reason that we, as human beings, have a tendency to hate our names so much.  
However, like titles of a book, names have to explain to you the idea behind thousands upon thousands of words, without revealing too much about what lies behind the cover. This is a near impossible task, so we mustn't blame those who fail to.

John hated his name because of how closely it represented his reality; being a worthless Beta-version of his sister. In this respect one could say that his name was a complete success at describing him. I believe not. I believe that he and Joan, not unlike Sherlock and I, saw their names as descriptions of themselves and accepted them as their fates.  
Joan just did everything John did, because she believed that, being given a name incredibly similar to his, she  _had_  to be him. She _had_ to be better to even be noticed, because then, she would've been in his position. And when she couldn't possibly be as good as him, under pressure she turned to the only way she could make it look as if she was. Interestingly enough, it's like she was Simple as that. Thus their names weren't made for who they are. They made themselves to match their names.  
My case (and I assume Sherlock's too) was little different: I hated my name so much because it dictated me who to be, shouted the words "consulting detective" in my head at all times, commanded me to never be anything else. I hated my name because it stole my freedom. And even though it divided me from the rest of society, I also despised it for basically grouping me into the same person as twenty-four others. That's really why we were all given the same name. We were told that we  _were_  the same person. The same distant, cold, genius, sociopathic person none of us really wanted to be.

And the thing that took me all this time to understand. That took me finding out that my position is not of value and that I am not needed for anything in particular. That took me coming close to killing someone in my rage.

That thing is that a name is just a name; It tries to describe but all it does is mask who we really are. In the end, people may have the most horrible name in the world and it doesn't matter. So long as they are a good person. I would like to try and be a good person now. Or, if I was already, a better one.  
I think someone with a name is more likely to be better than someone with a number.

The Watsons are setting an example: They promised to call each other once Joan landed on American soil. And she did. They talked for hours. It was a pleasant conversation they had, at least the half I heard. John said something about me shooting the wall again, so I'm assuming that's a good sign...

I guess the point I'm trying to make is, that seen as a name has no real power to tell you who you are or should be, you may as well like it. And even if you don't, don't bother about it. I can see dozens of miseries in your life at one glance and I'm sure that's barely even scraping the surface of the pain and suffering in your ordinary day-to-day life full of offices, beers and affairs, so why make your name another? Why fuss about such useless and unimportant things?

It's been thirty-four years but finally I can say in all honesty: My name is Sherlock Holmes.

I like my name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE-Y MCDONE! AW YEAH!  
> I am currently working on a sequel and also have a couple ideas for one or two oneshots and maybe a sequel to the sequel :D  
> This chapter is more of a reflection on what happened before. There are other thoughts I didn't write down, but I'll leave them to my readers (even though those are quite few but I love them all :3) to figure out.


End file.
